


Voice of John

by MaeJacrezz007



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Angst and Feels, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Minor Violence, Sorry Not Sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-13
Updated: 2018-09-13
Packaged: 2019-07-11 18:16:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15977783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaeJacrezz007/pseuds/MaeJacrezz007
Summary: The gods had a war. One side, the Red gods, wanted to continue to be cruel and rule over the humans. The others wanted to free the humans, and that was Hamilton and the gang. But there were prices to pay.Or: I saw some amazing fanart, wrote a thing, and am very sorry to John for getting caught in the middle.





	Voice of John

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a picture made by Kotik, a very very talented artist I stalk-- I mean follow on Tumblr and YouTube! Link to the picture is here: http://f-kotik-y.tumblr.com/post/177885262333#notes
> 
> The AU for this image has been expanded since I wrote this, but this was what just came out after seeing the picture. I did not draw this, and asked permission before I posted just in case.
> 
> Also, this is my first foray into the Hamilton fandom, and really not sure if I need to put a disclaimer or not since technically the characters were real people? Idk. I don't own anything.

Word of victory took long to spread, but took longer still to sink in. The Red Ones were not eager to release their hold on the realm. By the time they forced the leader George into surrendering, into reigning his follwers in, the damage had been done. Eliza had been the one to find him. Twenty-seven days after their war had been won and over, Eliza found him.

Alexander was there when they brought him in, and when the great stone doors opened --the late evening sun blinding them all-- for just a moment Alexander had hoped. In that moment, he hoped everything he heard had been false. Had been stretched and bent and exaggerated and anything but what he'd heard. In that moment, many of the gathered hoped.

The moment shattered with Alexander's heart as John came into focus.

John. His precious, beautiful, amazing John. The god of spirit, and morning, and song. Haloed in the evening light, illuminated from the front by the fires inside, Alexander could not deny the damage that had been done.

No longer could Alexander see the freckles that kissed across John's chest, bruises molting the skin a dark, sickening purple where the beautiful marks should have been. His right shoulder was swollen angrily, the usually pristine robes hanging off and close to tatters on John's noticeably thinner frame. Too long with hunger caused skin to pull unnaturally across the young god's face. Caused normally dew bright eyes to sink. Had not, Alexander realized, caused the dulling in those eyes.

Moving forward felt like pushing through sand. Reaching out felt like plunging a hand into coals. And touching John's marred, dirt coated skin, felt much the same as drowning. Alexander's eyes met John's, held for as long as he could stand holding his breath, then flickered down. The air vanished from the room as Alexander examined the wound. It was a vicious thing all on its own, blood dripping and thread tugging with every breath and swallow. In some places, the skin gaped, silent and almost watchful through the black crisscross of stitches. In others, the skin overlapped, puckering grotesquely under the knot of the thread. It oozed anger and magic and something distinctly dark. Something that felt spiteful, and forever, and unchangeing.

"--healers couldn't figure anything out," he heard, turning to face Angelica as she approached. As the goddess of fate present, Alexander trusted her word above any healers, and knew she would never lie. So when her next words crossed her lips, ringing with a firm knowing in the hush silent room, Alexander knew them to be true and broke. Clinging to John, Alexander hid his face in the dark, curly hair he loved so much. He ignored the matting from dirt and blood and other unthinkable things. Allowed John to press his face into the crook of his neck. Together, they wept. Alexander, god of wills, and mountains, and prose, wept loud enough to shake the earth below as John's tears burned hot and silent onto his skin.

John, leader of the heaven's choir and voice for the humans they had fought so hard to free, was silent. And silent he would be forever more.

_His voice has been taken,_ Angelica had said, _and can not be taken back._


End file.
